


For what are we but weak men in a mad world

by KeithKoenar



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cigarettes, Dom/sub Undertones, Drama, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Explicit Language, Feelings, Homophobic Language, Homosexuality, Implied Sexual Content, Lemon, Loyalty, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitution, Racial Slurrs, Romance, Slash, Smuggling, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-03-16 01:25:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13625628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeithKoenar/pseuds/KeithKoenar
Summary: "Mister Shelby! What will it be this time, shirts? Suits?""I'm not here for the dry-cleaning."He hasn't been here for the dry cleaning for quite some time....In which Mister Zhang is terribly sick for two weeks and Thomas Shelby ultimately ends up stealing a damn prostitute, because he is a foolish, weak man. A tale of trust and betrayal unfolds then, intertwined with Thomas' perpetual aspiration to expand the business, and too late does he understand it is spiralling out of control. In his desire for a man that would rather laugh at the misery of the world than wallow in it, Thomas forgets the harsh reality of their cruel world, forgets himself. For fours years he closes his eyes, thinks of an earnest smile as if to reassure himself.There's a red rising star in the east, and a gypsy king at the center of the world.





	1. And Laundry Detergent

**Author's Note:**

> Oh gods, who knows where this will go. Constructive reviews are welcomed warmly.

Spices in his nose, and laundry detergent. Thomas Shelby turns to the empty counter, throws around a puzzled look. Even though Thomas had not ever given him reason to fear him, Mr Zhang was always careful to welcome his best client without wait.

"My suits, please," Thomas called, keeping an ear out for any suspicious noise. "Mr Zhang."

A man appeared, lithe and a little out of breath, and definitely not Mr Zhang. With a critical eye Thomas took note of the peculiar crossbred quality of his skin, the unusual size for someone of oriental descent, but was careful to keep his face neutral.

The stranger smiled and the place smelt more intense all of the sudden. "S'pose you could call me that. Junior will do though."

Thomas didn't comment the accent. London, right? "My suits," he insisted instead.

"Of course sir," the boy disappeared, reappeared only seconds later. "Excuse me, your name?"

At that moment Thomas decided customer service was clearly going downhill in this place. 

"Thomas. Thomas Shelby," he answered pointedly, waiting for the realisation in the man's face.

All he got was a satisfied nod and seconds later, a heap perfectly clean and freshly pressed suits. 

"Terribly sorry for the wait mister, usually my uncle is up front, but he's caught an awful sickness past few days. I usually work in the back-"

"You're a talker," Thomas interrupted with slight annoyance, folding a few bills out of his pocket. "No wonder he has you working in the back."

The man broke into a sheepish smile, picking up the money, moving to get the change. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

Thomas eyed the coins that were held out and picked up his suits instead. "Keep the change," he said on his way out.

When the curious man pocketed the money with an intrigued grin, Thomas thinks he may not be the only one to have succumbed to a cursed charm.

 

* * *

  
  
Thomas tosses a look around, pretends not to look at Zhang junior.

"Mr Zhang still sick?"

The man gave a carefree grin. "What do you think?"

Thomas raised a brow at the insubordinance, and the young man must have seen, but threw his linen sack onto the counter without comment. Zhang junior peered inside, made a few notes on a piece of paper. So the boy could write in english. Noted.

"How many shirts?"

Thomas slipped his hands into his pockets. "Five. Not too much starch at the collar, please."

"I said I work in the back. Not at the dry-cleaner."

Electric blue snapped onto him with immediate realisation and Zhang Junior waited for the uncomfortable shift in them, but Shelby only blinked once, composed. A few seconds passed and then a neutral hum escaped the english man. A lifetime of understanding, an unbeliever who left the ultimate judgement to others.

"Family business, you see."

Thomas thinks he imagines the wink. There's another second of nonverbal communication, a certain stillness in the air as the measured breath expanded in Shelby's lung. Then he nodded, turned on his heels before he did something stupid.

"Not too much starch," he called over his shoulder on the way out.

 

* * *

  
  
He loathes it. That he can not get the young man out of his head. He knows this leads to nothing but frustrated fucks with cheap prostitutes and dazed out nights hanging on his bedside pipe, yet there is not much he can do. Getting his dick wet from time to time, if only to keep up appearances. 

He has lived this before, accepted that this was his life long ago. He had everything except for what he truly desired.

 

* * *

 

 

The note of disappointment at the sight of the good old Mr Zhang was foolish, Thomas knew. Yet the false smile and professional greeting curled distastefully on his palette, almost had him wishing for a younger, more straightforward face.

"The usual, Mister Shelby?"

Thomas remembered the pipe and bedside stash that had depleted dangerously, and it was almost as if cold sweat of panic and anticipation broke out on the back of his neck even as he gave a calm nod. "The usual."

The sticky ball wrapped in silk paper weighted heavy in Thomas' pocket as he walked the street back home. Sometimes to forget transparent smiles he needed a little nudge. To forget charming ones, only the abyss would do.

His fingers shake as he strikes the match.

 

* * *

 

"Mister Shelby! What will it be this time, shirts? Suits?"

"I'm not here for the dry-cleaning."

There was a startled quality to Mr Zhang's expression. "Already Mister Shelby?"

Thomas stared, stone cold. Only his eyes betrayed the storm brewing inside, and the impeding danger if Zhang was to utter a single word too much. With a cowering nod, Zhang cedes to the request.

"Xiao!" It comes, followed by a string of exotic profanities.

There's a shout in the back, an agreeing sound that Thomas does not understand either, and after a few uncomfortable seconds during which Zhang tried not to fold under the gangster's stare something shuffles in their peripheral vision.

A familiar head peeks out from behind the door, holding out a package. 

"Yifu." Zhang junior nods at Zhang, then to Thomas. "Thomas."

The use of his first name does something undescribable to Thomas, rummages the depth of his stomach with far too familiar heat. The young man's smile lights up the room, breaks the light on his exposed skin.  He is not wearing a shirt.  Family business, right.  If he could, Thomas would fling him against the wall and fuck the living daylights out of this boy, threatening every man who has ever laid a hand on him.

Thomas must have stared a second too long, for there was a foul edge at the upturned corners of Zhang's mouth. A vulture ready to grab an opportunity.

For what more virtuous friend than _the_ Shelby?

 

* * *

 

"Ah! Mister Shelby, what can I do for you?"

"Im not here for the shirts."

"Ah, yes, the usual?"

"I'm not here for the drugs either." 

A realisation flashes in Zhang's eyes. The putty man rubs his hands together, as if he had Thomas in the palm of his sweaty hand, as if Thomas Shelby was the kind of man you could hold in the palm of your fucking hand. Had Thomas been less drunk or high he would have sliced the man a new smile, but right now his mind was on one thing and one thing only.

He hears a name being called out, it is undeniably the wrong one.

"Not her. Do not play coy with me, Mister Zhang."

Thomas did not come here to get his dick wet in some common whore. He came here to reap what he craves. For once, and once only, he foolishly tells himself.

 

* * *

 

"You're..." Thomas trailed off, for once unsure in his words, scanning the man in the doorway up and down.

Zhang Junior demonstrated one of his gleeful signature grins, recognising the inspection for what it was even as he busied himself with pulling his shirt over his lean frame. "Tall for a chink?" he finished Thomas sentence. "I get that a lot."

"You seem to get a lot, a lot."

The young man only gave a shrug. "Dad's an Englishman, tends to attract curious question about..." He raised a hand and designated, well, himself.

"London?"

That telltale tug at Zhang's lips again, even as he slides out of his pants. "What gave me away?"

"You've got that preposterous big city boy attitude," Thomas growls.

With a sleek movement, Zhang slides into Thomas' personal bubble, thrusts him against a wall, hands flying up to work his many buttons. Usually that sort of aggression was a no-go, but here in the back of the dry-cleaning brothel den, under Zhang's demanding hands, Thomas suddenly was out of his depth.

"Yeah? Last time I checked you were nothing but a skiver pikey bastard."

"You cheeky little shit, did you have to look that one up?"

"What do you know, maybe I'm one of those unfortunate souls that can't read."

That was a pile of horseshit, of course. Why the hell Thomas even engaged in this small-talk, who the hell knew. All this chatter out of Zhang's mouth, it seemed it had caught possession of Thomas too, made his mouth unruly. Seeping, cracking eggshells of his construct. It took a few seconds for him to realise the weird sensation in his face was the mirror of Zhang's grin. This one caught the upwards tug of Thomas lips, devoured it even as he threw the gypsies shirt into a forgotten corner of the incense soaked room.

"There's a devil inside you, Shelby," he muttered against his mouth, taking notice in the shift of Thomas' hips, grinding against him. "You like that, when I say your name? 'Cause you think you understand what it stands for."

Thomas' possessive grip is tight on the flesh of Zhang's hips. "Oh I know."

"That's the thing, with you powerful men." Zhang dragged his teeth along Shelby's earlobe. "You think you know everything and own the world, and then you come here and get on your knees."

As if to drive the point home, there is a generous hand on Thomas' shoulder, pushing, eliciting a shiver. Thomas' whips his head around and meant to glare, but Zhang saw right through, palmed his twitching erection through his trousers. Intesity hangs static and loaded in the air, the scorching touch, the spicy smell, the harsh breaths shared between them, the savoury taste of Zhang lingering on his tongue. It shakes his whole being, the feeling of being alive.

"What you waiting for?  Get on your knees, _Mister Shelby._ "

Zhang's savoury taste would linger on his tongue longer than expected.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mister Shelby, someone's asking for you." Thomas raises his questioning eyes at Arthur Fenton, who wipes anxious hands on his dishcloth. "A young man. Chinese."

By a hairs width, Thomas holds back a sudden and uncharacteristic rise from his chair. This could not be, not here. His silence is interpreted as agreement and before he can shout No, send him the fuck away Zhang Junior stands in the doorway of the backroom, effectively blocking the only exit. Fenton throws an apprehensive look between them and pulls away.

The door gives a soft click as Zhang steps in and pulls it close.

"I've brought in a delivery," he says with an ease that is absolutely not adapted to the situation, throws that little package wrapped in silk "The usual."

"The usual. Hm." Thomas forces his eyes away, pours himself a drink. "I can't quite recall asking for deliveries."

The threat flies right past Zhang's shrugging shoulders. "Seemed kind of self-evident, seeing you come by more often lately."

"Your uncle's idea?"

"Mine."

Hot excitement ran through Thomas, and he took a long sip of his whiskey to moisten the fire, but it only seemed to fan life into the flames. His head rushed with the thought of a extraordinary, horribly foolish decision and a lifetime of repressed lust for the same sex culminated in the nervous hammering of his heart in his ribcage. Trained to hide himself away and then came along this ludicrous sprog, menacing Thomas' entire damn existence.

Thomas knocks back his drink. Weak men do what weak men do, in a mad world with scant relief.

"How much do you charge for delivery."

"For a first taste? A drink and two minutes thirteen of your time."

After a few seconds of deliberation, Thomas stood, closed the window latch and fetched a second glass from under the table. He topped both up generously and held his up.

"Cheers," he said before he knocked his drink down.

The foolish decision burned all the way down his throat. It must have been some kind of charlatan trick, that Zhang Junior had guessed Thomas' time almost to the second.

The charlatan gets his two pounds regardless.

 

* * *

  
Arthur doesn't particularly care about it, or comment when the half Chinese shows up with a delivery from time to time, and it is exchanged behind closed doors. Sometimes its a silk wrapped parcel to top off the bedside stock, sometimes trafficked cigarettes, sometimes a blow job. The latter is of course sloppy and quick, Thomas underlying fear of being discovered almost as important as the release. Almost.

Zhang is the first prostitute to complain about too much, but Thomas keeps on giving.

"It's just money," he shrugs it off.

Zhang only scoffs. "Since when is money only money with you."

Strange, how effortless he pierces through Thomas' sleek veneer, gets under his skin. Sometimes Thomas is so frightened by his own carelessness, that he shuts up to refrain from getting sloppy again. The blowjobs come so often afterwards, that when Thomas asks for the usual, Zhang eagerly drops to his knees.

 

* * *

 

"The usual?"

"I do believe so."

"How 'bout you give me the usual, pretty boy."

Something about the sheer cockiness of it makes Thomas either want to punch the boy or kiss him. Perhaps both.

 

* * *

 

"I need a new pistol."

"Need or want?"

Thomas shoots Zhang an elusive look. "Perhaps both."

"What makes you think I can help."

"You're a master of your trade, Junior."

There's a perpetual smirk on Zhang's lips as he moves around the pile of hay to tower over him, despite their minimal height difference. Fever rises between them, in this forbidden place only inches wide. Not here, not now, warns that voice in Thomas' head with pointless futility, has him glancing around the stables to check if anybody was coming their way. Zhang though is brash enough to pull a little closer still, fill the air with his steady voice and hot breath.

"There's whispers going about, about a bullet in your name. Pistol won't do. How about a grenade to whomever it may concern?"

Tommy exhales. He thinks to see recklessness with a dangerous finish, the kind of spirit that usually rolls off men like the Peaky Blinders. He must have underestimated Zhang, perhaps there was more english blood in these veins than Tommy initially presumed.

"Getting a little protective, are we?"

"Can't have the Lee's take out my most profitable customer. If I don't have it, I can get it for you, just say the word."

"Anything I want?" Thomas whispers. Their breaths had grown harsh and sultry.

"Anything you want."

Intense, biting certainties hover ominously in the stifling stable. Behind them, Thomas' prized horse neighs nervously, claps it hooves a few times, and Thomas falls powerless to the naked want in Zhang's eyes, falls to his lips like a thirsty man. They devour each other, inside and outside, claw with needy hands. Thomas' cap drops to the ground, Zhang's hand tugging at his hair, and without hesitation the Peaky Blinder's gang leader drops on his knees.

Truth to be told, Zhang already had everything Thomas wanted. He would worry about getting the dirt out of his newly tailored pants later.

 

* * *

 

"They talk about you."

"People talk."

"Right. Put on a great, fancy show everytime you walk by."

Thomas watches Zhang stretch, lean over to pick up the spiked cigarette and light it. The match flies wherever, to be picked up later. With every pull, he fills the brothel's musky air with the smell of strange herbs.

"The first time we met, you didn't recognize me. Was that all show too?"

Zhang rolls his head, pulls at the muscles of his neck deliberately. "You may be famous 'round here, but down in London we haven't heard your name."

"Yet."

"Careful," came the upbeat tone of a cocky man. "You make a move and the Chinese are the first to sniff the opportunity. That's how my people are, rise from the east and scatter like cockroaches."

Honestly, Thomas has got no idea why they are talking business and almost regrets coming back. Suspicion daws it is because Zhang wants to get on his good side, though the truth probably is the boy has run out of things to say and runs his mouth way too much for a damn prostitute. The Shelby could pretend all he wanted, somewhere in the haze of his mind, the conversation comes easy and thoughtless. No one knew he was here, and both Zhangs knew better than to talk. A shameful little secret, that Thomas fucking Shelby liked to fuck men.

The thought eludes him and comes back around to the conversation at hand. "Don't talk of your own with disdain, it brings bad luck."

"Says the bloody gypsy." Insults, perky jabs that have Thomas smile at the youthful insolence. "Don't tell me how to speak of the people I served with."

Thomas turns to his side, takes a pull of his cigarette with his pale eyes half lidded on Zhang. Outlandish thought, that this boy could have served at all, not when he does not seem to neither carry the world on his shoulders nor the madness in his mind, only an air of freshness anywhere he went.

The question must have shown on Tommy's face, for Zhang shrugged and answered the unspoken inquiry. "CLC at first. Only got to be a proper Englishman once the ranks had depleted."

"Shame." Thomas gave a nod of respect. "From one soldier to another."

Zhang scoffed. "If I had any medals, I'd throw them into the bloody Tames. During the last month of the war I spent half my time pointing the bayonet in front of me and the other lookin' over my damn shoulder. No one's got a halfbreed's back, 'cept for maybe the niggers."

The harsh truth of an England divided bitter in Zhang's mouth. Thomas fantoms he could have not been older than sixteen when he had enlisted, considering the youthful curve of his body. Tommy draws the line with hovering fingers over supple skin, and wonders if he did not wish for the same innocence Gretta had held until that fateful day before the war.  
Perhaps not, perhaps all he desired was a man that would rather laugh at the misery of the world than wallow in it. A man that was not him. It must be the strange herbs dancing in his vision, coals on his skin.

"I thought, I supposed that..."

The sentence hangs between them. Someone grabs his hand, squeezes it. There is strength in the pressure, steady pick up of crippled men drawn in the lines of Zhang's palm. This is what he did in the unholy den of this god forsaken backdoor brothel, split-second affections that mended the degenerate who gave in to their worst desires. The touch is broken before

Thomas fully grasps it's impact, and with a shaky breath he rolls onto his back.

This was a grave error, the worst of all the illegal activities he could have succumbed to, but he was too fatigued to think of the shame he brought upon himself and his family. He had been too tired for far too long. Warmth spreads over his side, cocooning weight of another body lulling Thomas into a daze.

Between silk sheets and the body of a sinning man, Thomas slips away without the flash of gruesome memories.

He leaves a big, fat wad of cash on the bedside table when he slips out quietly a few hours later.

 

* * *

 

Excited chatter in foreign tongue, and even before Thomas crossed the threshold of the dry cleaning shop, he could smell the tension. Only the familiarity of one of these voices trailed him in anyways, a cursed gift of these pursed lips and tender line of those arms. Zhang junior was as almost always until now, clad in a white undershirt and matching shirt, the tense muscle of his shoulders flexing.

He and the older Zhang were having one kind of a fight for sure, loud and ravenous, for they did not even notice Thomas Shelby standing in their shop. Thomas assumed an open but firm stance, peeling off his gloves and joining his hands in front of him.

"Is there a problem?" he inquired, his eyes falling briefly on the travel bag at Zhang juniors feet.

"No, no Mister-"

"Damn right there's a fuckin' problem, I refuse to be sold like cattle!"

The statement drew Thomas' eyebrows up. "Ah."

He knew the trade, prostitutes and such, so it did not seem odd that a young and capable specimen such as Zhang Junior was to be sold off for a respectable sum. The only thing that irked him was that both Zhang's were related, from what he had comprehended. Zhang Junior had seemed like a willing participant, not a slave.

Fear creeped into Mister Zhang's face with every measured step Thomas took towards him.

"Mister Zhang," he began, undoing the buttons on his coat. "It seemed to me like this is a family business, albeit from a lesser trade, but still. Tell me, what kind off family trade goes and sells off a part of itself?"

" _You thought you'd make a powerful friend_ ," hissed Zhang Junior in mandarin. " _You miscalculated. I made a powerful friend._ "

There was a twitch at their side, Zhang Junior seizing the distraction to grab his bag and make it for the door. Thomas waited until he was past the threshold to lean dangerously close to Mister Zhang.

"I too run a family business. We wouldn't want to tarnish that term, now would we?"

He waits for the terrified nod and then takes off after the younger Zhang, instinctively drawn to the main street. Right, left, there he was marching away in quick steps Thomas almost found too difficult to catch up too without looking ridicoulous.

"Now what was all that ruckus about?"

Zhang gives him a searing side-eye. "I'm a free bloody man."

"If you say so. Cigarette?"

"Fuck yes."

Zhang Junior plucks one out of the pack held out, lighters click, smoke burns their lungs in unison. Their brisk walk has mellowed out a bit, though the edge in Zhang's shoulders is still present, joined by a strained shudder against the cool autumn wind. He is still only wearing an open shirt, and that linen sack over his shoulder. Thomas gives him a once over, weighs his options.

He decides to go with, "Let's get you somewhere warm, come on."

Zhang does not protest. At the moment he has got nowhere else to go.

Fifteen minutes later, they are sipping their first beer at the pub, Thomas taps the counter for two chasers. Their night ends with Zhang quietly snoring at a table somewhere around closing time, half empty pint without bubbles set in front of him, and Arthur shooting Thomas an incredulous look.

"Is that the bloody delivery boy?"

Thomas distinguishes the falling and rising line of the boys back, his twisted hair, before turning back to his drink. "It sure is."

"What's 'e doin' here?"

"Working for us."

A light snore escaped Zhang, Arthur grimaces with disdain. "Sure seems to be working his ass off."

Thomas scoffs at that, it must be the alcohol that compels him to appreciate his brother's crude humor. Or maybe the irony that he has inadvertently just employed a fucking chink prostitute, after having stolen him.


	3. Chapter 3

"Got a delivery, down at the docks. You should come have a look."

"I'll come and have a look then."

 

* * *

  
"Rum."

"Apparently they did hear 'bout ya down in London." Zhang heaved the lid back onto the crate. "Don't know what the hell you did, but they aren't fuckin' about. Came to my da's place lookin' for me."

Thomas' eyebrows shot up in surprise, if only a few barely perceptible millimeters. "Huh."  
Suddenly Zhang was in his space, and in his tense torso vibrates wrath like Thomas has never seen before. Complete one eighty in the span of zero point two seconds.

" _Don't fuckin' huh me Thomas_ ," he presses through grit teeth. "The yids scared my old man shitless, one of 'em came close to eatin' a mouthful of lead. Came bargin' in like they bloody owned the place! Don't even have a clue how they got wind I'm workin' with ya, or where the fuck I'm stayin' when I'm in London, or that I was there at the moment. I'm havin' my dad move to the other side of the feckin' city now."

Thomas takes a deliberate second to digest the information, ward off the nasty flash in Zhang's eyes. Had the boy been anybody else, he would have probably caught a bullet with his teeth or earned a new smile, but as things stood Thomas was strangely impressed by his courage. Or recklessness. Either way he had to acknowledge Zhang's anger was not entirely misdirected. 

Tommy takes a pull of his cigarette. "You won't be able to stay over there either anymore."

Zhang mimicks him, fingers trembling in leftover adrenaline. "Damn right."

"We'll take care of things. It wasn't my intention to get your father involved. Accept my sincerest apologies."

"Thank you," Thaddeus spat, though it sounded more like a you better be.

Approaching voices attracted their attention, tension dissolving at once. Always on the lookout, and they exchanged a look and slipped away, but not before Zhang pushed the crate amongst others and pulled a net over it half hazardly. Instincts on that boy, Tommy had to admit, for a few seconds later a couple of coppers came into their vision. Someone must have tipped them off. Zhang did not know who, but he would sure find out and strangle the damn fool. For now all he can grit his teeth and duck with Thomas behind a damn crate.

"We've got to make a run for it," he murmured after a minute.

"What for. Too many damn coppers 'round, it'll only make things more complicated."

"You don't get to make that decision, not now."

"I am Thomas fockin' Shelby, Thomas Shelby doesn't fockin' run. Come on, these coppers are probably on my payroll anyways." 

"What you think the coppers will fancy finding out Thomas fockin' Shelby is doing business with the Chinks behind their backs?"

There is a particular urgency in Zhang's voice that Thomas does not recognise, and when he looks close he recognises the nervous jitter of Zhang's eyes. Realisation dawned upon him.

"You dimwit wog. You've got product on you."

Zhang evaded his accusing stare, clenched his jaw. "Of course I do," he hissed, watchful eyes on the cops roaming, obviously looking for something, or someone. "The hell you think I do all day? Some of us actually have to do the dirty work 'round here, not sit on their asses in a damn pub."

"Shut it!" Thomas shout-whispered. "If you've got enough to make you nervous than even you should know it's too much."

"Well I'm a tosser what did you expect?!" 

The shout reverberates and the thrill of familiar whistles follows shortly after, spurring both of them into a spontaneous run. As shouts rang behind them and their legs pumped faster, away from the docks, away from their useless fight, back into the city and amongst the crowd. They mingle and lose the cops somewhere half-way between the docks and the Chinese district, pulling into a side alley to catch their breath away from prying eyes. Thomas doubles over, hands on his knees. It has been a while since he's needed to run from the cops.

"You're," Thomas gasped for breath, "fast."

"Bloody hell," Zhang stretched, had broken into a small sweat and an accelerated breath, yet otherwise looked alright. "Give me a horse and I'll be faster than the damn telegraphs."

The lightning of an idea sparked in Thomas' mind. He disguises it as a game, barely needs to provoke Thaddeus to convince him to a display of his strength. When Zhang stumbled into the pub that evening, out of breath and grinning triumphantly, followed by the postman with a telegraph only twenty minutes later, Thomas took the decision then and there. He required reliable, discreet and fast delivery of goods, and the damn pikeys just didn't know when to keep their mouth shut. 

Maybe it was just an excuse though.

"How do you feel about going back to London?"

Zhang gave him an incredulous look, currently downing his second beer.

"It'll be a back and forth thing," Thomas reassured, and bathed in the approving shine of Zhang's eyes.

"So I'm your official delivery man now?"

Thomas threw a look around, leaned closer with an amused smile. "You can even have your own bloody business card if it fancies you."

Polly observed them with a critical eye.

 

* * *

 

  
Zhang likes the money of course, never he would lie about that. But after a while, it seems he takes it without expecting, and as all other patrons fall away and Thomas Shelby becomes his sole source of income, routine sets in. An unspoken agreement, that Thomas did not like to share. It is dependance, possessive and blind. Zhang examines the slippery slope he is about to go down and then realises he's been sliding down on it for quite some time already.

The king with a vulnerable crown, the one that drank his words and would consume him whether Zhang agreed or not. When provocation shot out of Zhang's mouth to add engine oil to the flowering inferno that was their existence, it only added to the thrill. 

"This is no good. Ill advised I am telling you nephew," his uncle says once when Zhang comes to pick up a silk gown for Ada. Thomas wanted to make her a gift for her birthday.

"There's a reason they call it dumb luck, old man," he simply answers and slips out with a wink.

His uncle is bristling, their last altercation still stinging between them, but shuts his mouth. Freedom expands in the span of Zhang's lungs, its fragrant odor letting him forget that he is slipping, slipping out of his own grasp.

When he gets back to the pub and they exchange the package, Thomas' pale eyes remind him of heaven on a clear winter midday. There's something inherently wrong in perceiving them as open doors, but Thomas seems to forget himself when he's around Zhang, they both seem to forget themselves, fall prey to their irrational devotion. 

Zhang doesn't mind. His entire life he has never been more than a lost boy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There's a Chinese boy hanging around the pub lately, fresh faced, barely twenty-five, and Polly does not like it one bit. For all Thomas does to hide it she isn't blind and has seen the lingering looks he has given men ever since he had hit puberty, the kind of looks he gives this boy when he pulls out the door. 

"It's business," Thomas had deflected her when she had asked. 

"What kind of funny business?" she had insisted.

Thomas had looked up with those pale, knowing eyes. "You know the Chinese. Cigarettes, silk and whatnot."

There's more to it. But they don't speak about that kind of thing, not even Polly. She just advises him to be careful and watches his shoulders sink in shame as he pretends to keep scanning the papers. 

The boy is back that same evening, a package under his arm and all smiles and taunts. Polly wants to protest when Arthur offers a beer, Thomas casting his eyes down almost coyly when the boy agrees wholeheartedly. The paper package lays forgotten on the counter, and when Polly hears Thomas laugh on the way out, she can't persuade herself to glare at the young man anymore. The once so familiar sound breaks her heart now.

She almost understands why her nephew was endangering the whole family over this. Unlike Thomas, she knows he is in love.

 


	4. Forgotten Chapters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christ I forgot to post this chapter, it's all in the wrong order now sheeeeeiiiiiit. Well whatever, consider this a lighthearted interlude before shit goes doooooown.

At first Thomas thinks of nothing, pulls on his cigarette with a mind at peace for once. They are on their backs, eyes half lidded and baking in the after glow, the sides of their nude bodies streamlining together underneath the sheets. It's the first time they've done this here, in Thomas' dingy little room and dingy little bed upstairs, and something feels weirdly personal about this. A bubble burst in a hasty rush pumping in their chests and pooling heat into their cocks, but Thomas does not want to think of that crude reality. 

He turns his head to look at Zhang, who exhibits that offhand nonchalance of his, as if he was able to clear his mind at any given moment. Resentment and fascination seize Thomas. He wishes to shake it off.

"Is Zhang your first name?" Thomas breaks the silence with his serene voice.

Zhang scoffs. "No."

"So what it is then." Thomas takes a pull of his cigarette. "Your first name."

Zhang laughed with embarrassment then, covering his face with his hands. "God, please no. I knew this day was gunna come. You're gunna laugh. And don't say you won't, 'cause that's a load of bollocks."

"Well, I'd say you're allergic to bollocks, but..."

"Tosser. Ugh, fine. Thaddeus. It's Thaddeus, alright? My mother wanted a Chinese name, but my father convinced her that Thaddeus sounded enough like Tadeo, which is, y'know, chinese."

"So?"

"What?"

"What's so bad about it? I mean Thaddeus is a mighty fine name; can be shortened to almost anything, Toddy, Teddy, Ted. I concede your father must be a very wise man."

They exchanged a look and immediately the glee in the edge of Thomas' lips erupted, both snorting with laughter. Zhang- Thaddeus Thomas reminded himself brought a hand over his eyes while the other jabbed the gypsy in the side.

"My father is a righteous prick," he said between chuckles. "No wonder you like him."

"You bet I would."

For a man that keeps his guard tight, the words sure slip easily by Thomas. The regret, the hurt in Thaddeus' eyes, comes even easier. Astonishing how fast the mood splits, as if their life was a constant walk on a tightrope, a careful balance of reality and desires.

Thomas rips away with uneasiness catching in his lung, jumps to put on his pants.

"Don't," he cuts off Thaddeus before this one can declare anything. "We can't ever go public with this, an' if you tell a soul I swear I'll have you shot and thrown in the cut."

"Really, empty threats to silence me? Get off yer high horse, Thomas," Thaddeus leaned back and glared at the ceiling. "Won't need to hire anyone to slit my throat if word ever gets out. Common queers like meself get hunted like dogs."

Thomas tucks in his undershirt with sharp movement and listens to Zhang with a grounding jaw that makes the muscle of his cheek pop. He fights the shake of his fingers as they move to fasten the buttons of his shirt, suppresses the rage bubbling up inside with all his might. One button, two buttons. They should not be talking about this, hell, they should not be doing it.

"Those of us who have no name only have their life to lose."

The third button flies across the room. Thomas has a complete meltdown, shatters of metal as his typewriter flies off the desk, a howl of madness ripped from his throat before he catches himself, plunges it back under. The surface ripples and he drowns the beast, recovers himself sitting on the bedside with a trembling hand reaching out to the solace of Thaddeus' skin.

The grip he has on the man's jaw must be hurting, yet Thaddeus lets him. It is moments like these Thomas is most afraid of, moments he can not control, moments he had sworn himself would never occur again, back in France. It is with the patience of a condemned man, that Thaddeus takes it. Raises his hands to grip at Thomas, hauls him back in, the bridge between them granting safe passage over the murky waters.

Empty threats, he had said. Sometimes Thomas craves him so much he is not so sure about that anymore.

"I wouldn't allow it," he presses, hold tightening. "You're under bloody Peaky Blinder protection, you 'ear me? If anyone dares touch you I'll skin them maggots alive, feed 'em to the pigs."

Thaddeus holds his gaze, swallows the anxious ball in his throat. Then it comes, the uncomfortable truth, strained and jagged.

"As long as I am no Shelby, I am nothing."

Thomas released his jaw, burnt. His mind is going faster than his damn car could ever go, searching all nooks and crannies for a needle in the haystack solution, driven by what he distinguishes deep down as dashed hopes.

It's out of control, all of this. The minuscule crease of distress between Thomas' brows speaks volumes.

"Forgive me. I got carried away." His hand came up, wished to shake Thaddeus out of his shocked daze. Usually, he was so chatty, now it was as if his tongue has been cut out to blister stunned silence that crept guilt into Thomas' chest. "Say somethin', please."

Thaddeus only comes apart with a terror-stricken shake of his head. There was nothing left to say between two blind men trying to guide each other across the bustling street. Thomas spilt a solitary tear before he ripped away, threw on the rest of his clothes and exiled himself from his own chambers.

Zhang was gone when he came back in the evening, drunk and with a packs worth of cigarettes scratching in the back of his throat. His pipe burned the itch away.

Maybe they were only at a crossroad, narrowly missing each other.

 

* * *

 

 

They barely look at each other the next time. Thomas pushes a letter into Thaddeus' hand and can not seem to pull back immediatly. They share a breath, shaking and uneasy.

"It's for Ada. There's an address on the back."

Thaddeus' nods and they break apart hesitantly.

"Anything else?" His tone is all business, unusual, grating in Thomas' ear.

Thomas reaches for his wad of money, goes to pull out a few bills but then decides otherwise and holds the whole roll out, bitter reflux burning in his throat. They are both staring at the money with incertitude.

"For last time?" comes Thaddeus reluctant question.

Thomas had planned to put distance between them, a last mission to another city and a few bills seemed like a small sacrifice. Now in the familiar confines of his office, it seemed absurd. Thaddeus was the only relief in a world where Thomas always pulled the strings, and he was about to send him away. Maybe it was time to stop hating himself.

"No," Thomas finally admits. "For pertrol."

"What the hell you mean for petrol."

Thomas breathes. "Figured if you're going to travel back and forth this much, you might as well have a car. My car. Was planning on getting a new one anyways," he tries to justify to Thaddeus, to himself.

"You're bloody jokin' right."

A fragile air spans across the room, across Thaddeus' astounded eyes as Thomas connected to them at last. Wafer-thin resistance wanes as he steps closer, pushes the bills aside, brings his lips to Thomas' in a chaste kiss. Thomas has never been kissed like that by a man, standing in a tight embrace with a simple touch of the lips, the axis of time skidding to a halt.

In a world disillusioned by constant war, desires had become crooked. If they kept on crashing against each other with ferocity between their teeth, it is only because they had not truly obtained what they craved.

Even now, that would not be over. It would never be over. But it would at least get better, somehow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which teeth are pulled and hard decisions made.

Relief floods through Thomas as he catches a glimpse of Teddy's bike carelessly thrown on the side of the pub. He bursts through the doors, frantic to get in front of Thaddeus, who barely has the time to turn to him.

"You have to get to London."

Zhang almost chocked on his drink. "What? I just fuckin' came back," he exclaims in desperation.

"Leave, now."

Zhang's head snaps up, breath knocked out of his lungs. Primal terror has spread in Thomas' whole body, the air between them intense and pleading, and for a non-believer Thomas fucking Shelby sure looks ready to drop on his knees and pray any second now.

A thin breath, fragile morning mist. "Ada."

The air is harsh in his lungs, legs pumping, mind racing faster than Thaddeus is. The weight of the keys to a brand new car is heavy in his hand. Thomas' pale, frightened eyes. Charlie shot up in his seat but let Zhang pass, rip open the doors to the warehouse. The Austro Daimler glistens in the moonlight, the engine roars as Zhang pushed the gas pedal to the floor, zipping like a mad man out of the city of Birghimham, through the flat landscape of the countryside.

When Thaddeus puts two bullets into two men and pulls Ada out of the car, he can only shake the panic out of her, repeating, _it's okay, Thomas sent me!_ over and over again, until she gawks at him with those big, terrified eyes, still as a dead bird.

It's been a while since anyone called Tommy Shelby by his proper first name.

 

* * *

 

His features have slimmed a bit since last time, that time he gave her the keys to that grand mansion. There's a more serious tip to the line of his flat cheekbones, angulated jaw. Where boyish softness had once graced his face, the years started taking their toll now. Yet underneath the tired brim of his almond shaped eyes, Ada still recognised the rush of youthful stamina. Brisk and quick on the trigger. Two bullets, two men, Ada recalled every second of it through the haze of adrenaline. A jagged blade that rarely missed its mark. No wonder Thomas liked this one.

In a twisted way, it excites her. How often does it happen that an exotic beauty saves you from impending doom and then goes and looks all sexy and gloomy on the windowsill? Ada shifted, perked her bust, rearranged her hair. Her son was in the next room, peacefully sleeping and safe. She could have some fun.

"I remember you. Not only from when you delivered Tommy's letters. From before, the pub, saw you 'round once or twice."

He scoffed, barely graces her with a glance, takes another long pull of his cigarette with watchful eyes on the street below, that everpresent jitter in his leg. "Yeah, well then you haven't been payin' much attention," he muttered under his breath.

"I've got to admit," she says with her most virtuous voice, "I'm at a loss of how to thank you."

"Do yerself a favor, yeah? Close your legs back up."

Ada shifted uncomfortably, though only for a second. "Is it because of my brother?"

A cigarette crepitates in the silence between them. "It's your brother alright," the man rumbles, pensive and gentle in a way that has Ada think there is more to this.

A trusted messenger, diving into action on her brothers command. He had been ready to die for her back there she recognizes, it is the kind of loyalty you can not buy. But Ada could make a list of things Thomas thought he could buy.

Ada took a discreet look around. The two room apartment was small, kind of dingy and a mess, including the sparsely furnished bedroom they were currently in. The ashtray the man crushes his cigarette in is already overflowing, and one can only wonder why as he immediately lights another, throws the extinguished matchstick wherever.

"Did he buy you this place?" she asks, prodding at the silky sheets underneath her.

He scoffs. Jackpot. "Told 'im I didn't want it, wouldn't listen. That's what he does, innit? Give and give until he bleeds dry working for more, the mule headed bastard."

"He must appreciate you then."

"He appreciates you too, bought you that grand house. Eight bedrooms, isn't it? That's four more than the one I got."

Ada must not be hearing right. Thomas bought this foreign man a house. Not just a dingy little apartment, but a fucking house. This was getting more preposterous by the second, how could a stranger be close enough to the family that he revelled in the same privileges as her? For all the times she cursed her family out; she felt offended now.

"Shut yer mouth, you might catch a fly."

"I don't even know your fucking name," it exploded out of Ada, blood shooting to the tips of her ears.

"Teddy. And now don't throw a fit, I've got better things to do."

"Like watching the damn street?" Ada got up in a huff, started gathering her things. "That's it. I'm not staying in a strangers apartment, getting insulted-"

"Sit your arse down!" bellowed Teddy, shooting daggers at Ada, effectively freezing her in fright. "You've got no idea what's goin' on do ya? We are at war. You understand? The Peaky Blinders are at fuckin' war and if you make wrong step the next bullets are for you and yer son!"

The legs under Ada gave out and she fell back onto the bed, clutching her belongings to her chest. A tremble filled her, Teddy's words seeping in. It had been mindless of her to push the foreboding realisation down and now it hit her with full force. Her son. This was real. This was critical. When a pair of calloused hands came to her, she gripped them for dear life, sobs starting to racket her body.

"Don't worry. I ain't gunna let it happen, alright?" Came the same voice, eons gentler now. "Tommy's not gunna let it happen."

"Something's wrong. Something's terribly wrong."

Teddy swallowed, cupped her hands. "I know," it came strained from the back of his throat.

If it's even achievable, the distress in his voice is even more considerable. Ada tries to capture his eye through blurry vision, but all she can discern is a man gone astray. Though his hands are still there to seek and comfort her, his confidence has fallen through the cracks of an erratic search for answers.

"Enlighten me," she sniffs into the silence. "You and my brother-"

"Shut it," he cuts her, and sounds so much like Thomas that her mouth actually snaps shut.

Two days later, when he puts a loaded gun in her hand and urges her to stay put, Ada agrees for once in her damn life. They should have had news by now, he says, he's going out to get Thomas. He takes her hands and explains it'll take him less than twenty-four hours and that the man guarding the door is named Minsheng. He'll take care of her. Teddy promises Ada he'll come back and that they can take a walk then.

For now, the fresh air will have to wait. Ada trusts this man, because she can recognize in his eyes what she saw in Freddie's once.

 

* * *

 

 

"Christ, the fuck they do to you."

Tommy can barely open his eyes and look up from his hospital back, yet the edges of his mouth turn up. "Took me for one hell of a ride, that much I can tell ya."

Thaddeus grabs a chair, drags it closer with an obnoxious noise and drops down, running a hand over his dry mouth. He can barely look at Tommy, at his black and blue face. He is afraid he will shoot up and squeeze the man tight against him, making the pain worse.

"Heard they took your tooth. Now that's just fucked up."

"Where's Ada," Tommy inquires instead of answering, his voice uncharacteristically weak.

"Back in London, didn't think it was prudent to bring her back here if I had no news."

Hesitation. "Polly didn't...?"

"Would I be here if she had?" There is a tip of disdain in Teddy's growl. Polly despised him and his involvment in the family, and did little to hide it.

"No. Evidently not."

He is searching for Thaddeus' eyes, wants him to look at what this life has done to him, to them. Wants him to do what Ada did, turn and leave it all behind. There are no regrets in Zhang's stare though, only the pain he shares with Tommy then, and his soft hand comes up to graze Thomas' cheek as if he wished to draw the pain away, take it upon himself.

"Jesus Tommy, fuckin' look at you," comes his broken whisper, stinging right into the center of Thomas' chest. "I thought you were fuckin' dead."

"Luckily I'm not that easy to put six feet under, ey?" Shelby says quietly.

Zhang scoffs. "Well, you sure make good sport out of coming real bloody close to it, don't you."

"Thanks."

They smile, even though it hurts. Zhangs pulls back, slow murder with every inch he puts between them.

"Gotta run, my train's leavin' in twenty-three minutes."

"You just arrived."

He shakes his head. "I'm on the clock, told Ada I'd be back in twenty-four hours."

"Considering you are now the proud owner of the fastest car in the world, I think we got another two minutes."

"Gypsy basterd. Keep your bloody Daimler," Thaddeus hissed. He knew what Tommy was trying to do, what he was always trying to do when he could not force somebodies hand, buy his fucking soul.

"Damn chink. Take me with you to London."

"You've lost your ninny mind. No. Out of the question."

"It's essential," Thomas insists.

"When it comes to business, everythin' is bloody essential to you."

"It's the details that paint the big picture."

"You don't draw, or make the difference between business and personal."

"Shouldn't you be the one rejoicing in that?" Meaningless banter, how they used to make. It gives Thomas a sense of normalcy, lets him forget about the creaking of his broken bones and swolen eyelids.

Thaddeus grabs the glass of water on the nightstand, leans forward to press the cool glass against Thomas' lips. "Drink some water, it'll help keeping your mouth shut." Thomas drinks willingly, small gulps that both hurt and relieved his rash throat. "No, I'm not taking you to London. Don't go without me."

"Let's bake sum bread."

An exasperated sigh. The glass clinks as Thaddeus sets it down."Blow me, you really goin' all arse over elbow on this."

The comment made Tommy grin. Zhang had never held back, but his insults lacked the nasty tinge others would have held in their voice. All of the sudden, it feels easier to breathe through his cracked ribs. The truth lays unspoken amongst them.

"You should know all about botch jobs."

"Yeah, enough to know you don't effin' do them, Tommy. Botch jobs will get you killed." Thaddeus sniffs, wipes the back of his hand over his nose. Thomas imagines he must have given himself a little push of Tokyo, considering the circumstances. "Chattin' me up like this, it ain't fair."

"So that's a yes then."

"Whateva." Zhang glances at his pocket watch again, stands up and backs off direction door. "I'm takin' care of things, stay put. I'll pick you up later."

"Don't die on me," Thomas pleads sincerely.

Zhang rolls his eyes. "Brilliant. Right back at you."

Thomas chokes on his laugh and falls back asleep immediatly afterwards, the vial in Teddy's pocket just as empty as it was heavy. Thaddeus sits at the wheel of his pristine white car, glancing up at Thomas' window one last time before he pulls away, away from this cursed hospital and this cursed city. London was calling.

_Don't die on me._

Well he would fucking try. At least as hard as Thomas did. Whatever the fuck that meant.


	6. Chapter 6

"Says he's here on behalf of Thomas Shelby."

Alfie Solomon's gives Thaddeus a good once over, evaluating, then designates the chair in front of him with a calloused hand. Thaddeus sinks down on it, takes off his coat with a calculated precaution, rolls up his sleeves and adjusts the cap on his head.

"And you are."

"Don't play games wit' me. Thomas gives me enuff' of that shit as it is," Zhang shoots back, taking a drag of his cigarette.

Solomon's eyes fall onto the colorful ink darkening the skin of Thaddeus' forearms. Promises of allegiance, traced in one of those languages Alfie does not know. There is a flash of London's coat of arms too, right underneath England's famous Tudor Rose on the insides of Zhang's wrist, a strange but not unsatisfying sight, english symbols of pride crafted with the infamous Chinese skill onto skin. Though there is a certain irony in a Chinese gangster wearing a colorful symbol of peace, coming to talk business with a Jewish mob boss on behalf of a gypsy one.

Alfie intertwines his fingers. "So it's true what they say," he speaks ominously.

He does not miss how Zhang's piercing eyes shoot up through the mist of his cigarette, an ounce of panic flashing, as if Alfie's mysterious words could mean impending doom. Whatever secret Alfie may or may not know, this man looks ready to fight to the death to defend it. Solomon decides he likes it.

He unfolds his arms and smiles with deceit. "Let's break bread. Brown or white?"

"White."

"Superb choice." Solomon waves and his man scutters away to comply with the silent order. "The brown stuff's only for the gutter rats. Though I admit we got 'em plenty 'ere, so I s'pose I should cheer up, yeah mate?"

Thomas grits his teeth. He has heard about the jew, yapping away precious time as if he was the richest man in the world, but all Teddy holds right now is contempt and the innecessant wish to move out of this damn hole in the ground. "You're at war, up 'ere in London," he interrupts.

"From 'round here, are ya?" Solomon throws back mockingly, accepting the glass that his subordonate brings. "Christ, can't even have a good ol' piece of small talk before you people go all business."

Zhang glares as if he wants to snap at him to shut up, but thinks better of it, downs his burning drink. "The Italians are a problem. Everywhere. The Peaky Blinders want to join forces."

"The Triads in on the game?"

"Trade only. The Chinese stay out of gang wars."

"The Chinese do whatever you say, to a..." Solomon's hand gave a vague motion as he searched the adequate words. "Certain extent of course. Yer right, I've 'eard 'bout ya. Come quite a long way, mate, since that unfortunate affair down in Villiers Street."

Thaddeus remembers that day a few months ago, when the yids had stormed his fathers place and he had brandished a shotgun at Solomon's ugly face. Right now he thinks he should have pulled the trigger, put an end to this before it even started. It reflects in the grim shadow hooding the edge of his features and Solomon sure must see it, but the fucking jew just grins.

"Yer a leader, boy," he drawls provocatively.

"Just tryin' to get by," Thaddeus growls back.

It's true. He has been a survivor for so long he does not know how to be anything else but barbed wire instinct, though that may have taken him further than expected. The sole reason why he is here now, staring into the face of self-evident danger, is because he is stupid and in love. He chooses to ignore it. Solomon does not grant him as much, as he leans back and pulls on his cigarette noisily.

"Nonsense, dun' be so modest. Gypsies up in Birmingham like ya, Japs down 'ere in London like ya, and the Chinese everywhere like ya 'cause business is boomin'. Seems yer made friends all over. You're good for business, out of some unfathomable stroke of luck, and I would be a fool not to take a sip from that fountain, don't you think lad? The risin' star of the east, Thaddeus Zhang." The eyes in front of him flash. "Yeah, that's 'ight, even know yer precious first name."

Zhang can't avoid it, grits his teeth and burns the rest of his cigarette away in his lung, leans forward with a hand on his knee to crush the butt in the ashtray. He thinks, but it doesn't help a great deal. Thinking has never been his strong suit, that had inevitably been Tommy's, and Zhang holds back the regret at coming here alone.

Tommy's black and blue face, the twitch of his upper lip when he tries hiding the pain behind a thin coat of a smile. They took his tooth. They took his fucking tooth, the sick bastards. They tried to take his sister.

"I want 'em dead. All of 'em," Zhang hisses, his blazing stare on Solomon. "I'm gunna take Sanbini's eyes, pull every tooth out of that Italian bastard's head and then I'll take his fuckin' balls."

Alfie grins. This young man was every ounce of jagged switchblade he had been promised, breathing fire between them without hesitation. He would be easy to manipulate.

"The Chinks in?" was all Solomon repeated, just as stubborn.

Thaddeus breathes. Instincts are on high alert, rearing their head at the prospect of shaking hands with this man, but it is what Tommy wants. What Tommy was ready to get out of that damned hospital bed for. It is what Thaddeus wants, the force of a raging bull behind those taunt shoulders, the demons with their spikes and lances prodding, the memory of Thomas wincing in pain. A thousand fates were tied to this decision, tempting him by one hand, however Thaddeus only sees the golden string of Thomas Shelby's resting in his other. He does not possess the heart to cut clean through it.

"The Chinese do whatever I say."

He will understand, years later, he should have snapped those scissors shut. Right now though, he is stupid and in love.

 

* * *

 

The morning is bleak, Thomas still slightly swaying on his feet as the boat docks. There's a figure standing in the mist, smoking a cigarette, and Tommy recognises the outline of those shoulders from several dozen feet away even with that bloodshot eye that bluries his vision.

"You didn't come back," he mutters as he steps off the boat, refusing to look at the shadow as he strode past into the docks.

"Told ya, took care of business."

Thomas freezes at that, whips around almost hard enough to sway off his unsteady feet, if it were not for a steady hand that grips his upper arm tight. Thaddeus' pierces his sunken eyes, and Thomas wants to spit at the pity in them, yet all he manages is a glance around and hands pulling at the lapels of Zhang's jacket with newfound force. He pushes the man into a obscure corner of the street, thrusts him against the wall, resentment getting the better of him.

"Business, eh? It wasn't yer fuckin' business to meddle with! Could've gotten yerself killed you damn fool."

Thaddeus does not back off. "Camden Town stinks to high heaven, aye, but wasn't 'bout to let you walk in there. Solomon would've blown you to bits in the state yer in!"

"Yeah?" Thomas growls, pushing closer. "Well what made you think 'e wouldn't do the same to a nobody like you?"

There are scorching embers in the corners of Thaddeus' cheeks, twitching. "I ain't a nobody."

"Well, you ain't no fuckin' Blinder."

"Take that back."

A silence stretches between them, far away echoes of a few working men voices, the sloshing of polluted water. Thaddeus' fingers are searing on his wrist and Thomas drinks the glare until hurt creeps into it and he almost regrets his cutting words. It was a lie, a filthy fucking lie he used to shield himself from whatever affections rose from within at the sight of Teddy. Because Teddy was not family. He was not supposed to get this close. There was a time and place where Tommy would never have permitted this to happen, for the pang of hurt in Thaddeus' face to slice so bad.

"Got a deal, a pretty blinding one at that, and this is how you thank me. Good enuff' to snog, that's it, eh?" A strange empathy crawls into Zhang's wounded voice then. "You daft nob. I did it for you."

_I do everything for you._

It is the power he holds over Zhang and the inability to quite know what to do with it that scares Thomas to his wet bones, and he staggers back like a man burnt, stands in the middle of the dark alley. A nod comes to his head almost absently. Somehow, he must have planned this.

"Alright," he breaks his rough voice, "You started this. You finish it."

Teddy peels off the wall with apprehension stressed thin in his gait. "Ninety good Peaky men, ten Triads. Don't give me that look, y'know who I'm rollin' in the hay with."

"I'll send 'em over. Report back to me in a few days."

"'course. Go home, Tommy."

It's a suggestion, yet it feels like an order. Weirdly, Thomas does not mind complying with it for once, his mind stretched thin over pain meds and a hangover he does not remember earning. The boats sway lulls him into sleep all the way back to Birmingham, at least if you can proclaim it sleep and not a fucking coma. He ignores Polly's disapproving look when he calls a family meeting and explains, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, warding off a massive headache.

"You'll regret trusting this man the day he stabs you in the back," she says with fervor, hands clutched over her handbag.

Thomas only brings a hand to his temple. "Only regret I'll have is not tellin' ya to fuck off enough."

John snorts, refuses to cower for once when his aunt directs her glare at him, only shrugs. "He's right Polly. It's fuckin' Teddy, he can 'andle it for us. Don't know what you all stuck up fo', he's an ace Blinder."

"He is not."

Thomas doesn't find it in him to protest. He throws back his whiskey, closes his eyes and thinks of Thaddeus' earnest smile, as if to reassure himself.  
  


* * *

 

 

"I want you to watch over Ada."

"My men already are, Tommy."

"Be discreet, she doesn't fancy being watched."

At that Teddy throws back his head and laughs, Tommy getting that strange feeling he is actually laughing at him for once. "No, she fancies playin' chess and grabbin' a bloody drink from time to time. Whiskey on ice if yer wonderin'. What she don't appreciate is bein' watched in secret. Maybe you lot should come over to visit sometime, eh?"  
  


* * *

 

 

In the dark of the tavern, Zhang flashes a vibrant grin, sets a whiskey on ice in front of Ada and one without in front of Tommy. They can move about freely here at once, by the power of their combined presence, yet when Thaddeus rolls up his sleeves, unspoken hierarchy sets in.

There's raw ink on the inside of his other wrist, a lion with Birmingham's coat of arms underneath. Allegiances for everyone to see.

There's another new scar, when Tommy kisses the trail down Thaddeus' belly that evening. He holds his thoughts, traces the sixteen spokes of the red vardo wheel with a mesmerised finger, the symbol vibrating excitedly underneath his gentle touch. There is magic in this symbol, ancient and carefully guarded by his people.

"You are conscious of what this is."

"To stop you from doubting. Johnny knows more than he lets on, 'bout Romani customs." Teddy grins and buried his hand in Tommy's hair. "Gyellem, gypsy boy."

Tommy slides up his body. "Gyellem," he breathes and sinks for a kiss.

_I travelled_ , and neither were done travelling yet. A week later, Thomas has the mirror image of the Romani chakra on his hipbone, invisible strings woven into their skin.


	7. Chapter 7

Unsurprisingly, his mother does not care he is getting mixed up in the wrong kind of business. The only thing she expresses in her letters are pride for her sons uprising from a simpleton prostitute to one of these respectable men she usually is a concubine too, and she agrees for a bit of influence on her part as a direct connection to the homeland.  
Thaddeus does not tell her there is a place in England he calls home now. Not London, no, the other place he seeks when work drones and pulses around him too much.

The one with forbidden touches and bleeding hearts, the place that wears Tommy Shelby's name. At times Teddy does not know if he is pursuing the man, or the man is pursuing him, engulfing in his presence and haunting in his absence. They are becoming reckless, glued to one another whenever the occasion arises, disregarding the whispers coming from the shadows once they have turned the corner.

Teddy's mother would never know any of that. His father does not speak to him anymore.

* * *

 

They seize what's theirs, the international trade, the docks, the fucking Derby. It is all laid out for Thomas to see, and he points the actors of his grandiose plan into the desirable directions. London is theirs too. Thaddeus makes sure of that, with that engaging smile of his and poignant instinct with which deals are made.

Trade with the far east is booming: Teddy's the key. Anything they don't have, Teddy can arrange for them, and when he stops over in Birmingham every few days to grab a drink with the boys, he is welcomed with open arms.

Thomas can perceive him drifting. Slipping from his grasp with nostalgia, even if Thaddeus diligently delivers truckloads of cocaine and cigarettes and tea and finest silks, even if he climbs through Thomas' window deep in the night to run his hands over his body and taunt him about that extravagant house. Teddy himself still lives in that shabby two-bedroom apartment down in London, says a palace like this fills with emptiness far too quickly.

When Teddy falls asleep in the fine silks and the room falls silent except for their measured breaths, Tommy sometimes thinks of that dank room above the Garrison he had once called home.

* * *

 

Tommy takes a deep inhale of the outstretched cigarette, strange spices filling the smoke of his mouth. It rises through his lungs, travels all the way back to his head, through his tense muscles and out of his nose, thick and mellow.

"Dope king," Tommy muses absently. "Has a certain ring to it."

"Not that you approve, eh? Mister I'm goin' clean."

"Two hundred pounds a day is a bit much don't you think."

"Just 'bout enough to wipe your ass with I reckon'."

"In weight, Thaddeus, not pennies."

"Now that's a respectable amount of trafficking you're accusing me of, Mister Shelby. Wouldn't know how I'd get me hands on that much of the finest, uncut dope."

"It's the Chinese," he says matter of factly. "You've got connections."

Teddy only grins. "Worse than the damn gypsies."

"Eddie Manning surely has a word to say 'bout that."

"London's my turf now. Eddie fuckin' Manning keeps his trap shut and deals my Henry's."

"Fair enough."

* * *

 

"Don't have t' come that often, y'know," Thomas mumbles into the night once, secretly hoping Teddy would take the exit before one of them did something stupid. "You're a busy man now."

"As busy as you?" Thaddeus tries to lug them out of the upcoming conversation to no avail. Then he shrugs, cants his honest eyes upwards. "I want to. London's busy, always wankers askin' questions, waitin' for orders. I fuckin' 'ate it."

"So I'm just your excuse to get sum' fresh air?"

"You're much more than that."

Through all the lies and deceit, there are nevertheless Thaddeus' somber eyes. There were times Thomas mourned the days before he had met them, the days where their gravest problems were the hovering Italians and dirty coppers. On other evenings he took a good look at his empire and patted himself on the shoulder for a job well done.

Today was not such an evening. Every time Thaddeus was there it was not such an evening. All there is, is the unsettling what if of a simpler present, had he not been sent away to be ripped apart in those dark tunnels underneath the trenches. If only he had been another man. If only he had not come back at all. Thomas kissed the top of his lovers head and tries to push the thought away. He can't. Teddy remains, hovering outside of his immediate reach, conducting business somewhere up in London half of the time, reaching for the scraps left of Tommy with the other half.

"Been wonderin' Teddy-boy. 'Bout what we should do of this predicament. Heard rumors 'bout us. Rumors aren't good for business."

"People talk," Teddy muttered absently, repeating Tommy's words from eons ago.

"Too much for their own good. To much for ours. Can't go about cuttin' everybody forever," Thomas continued, unwavering.

"It's what we've always done, Tommy."

"Been thinkin', there's another way." Thomas takes a deep drag of his cigarette. "Been thinkin', I want an heir. Been thinkin' one of us should get married."

"My mum would fancy that for sure. The Chinks want me to take a wife," Teddy cuts in, voice calm and deep and drowsy. It is some kind of proposition thrown into Tommy's lap without much enthusiasm, just like he received the one thrown his way.

"Take the offer."

"Bugger off," Teddy shoots back immediately, as if he had only been waiting for that response. "Is business, that's what it is, don't want to marry into business. Got my head up in it enough. Didn't want this, y'know. Too much thinkin' to do, and not one second of darn peace with 'em men flyin' 'round your head like flies 'round shit."

"Could've let me handled London, way back when."

"Could still give it to ya. Now to think of it, no, I couldn't. Triads wouldn't let an Englishman amidst their ranks."

"You are an Englishman."

"You and I both know how much of tha' is true."

"'Bout half I reckon."

"Wanker."

A silence stretches like Tommy's hand on Teddy's shoulder as he pulls him closer, slips out of their embrace to slide down and face him. They are inches apart, with Thaddeus' hand between them, close enough for the fingers to stretch and run over Thomas' broken nose in a moment of weakness.

"Yuesheng is powerful, but 'is daughter is dumber than a bag of rocks. All the two of us'll do is rattle together." Teddy mimicked the sound of a rattle, shaking his hand near his ear as if he was holding one and giving Thomas an expectant look. "Ya hear that? That two bags of rocks shuckin' up," he half-joked, drawing a grin form Thomas before he shook his head and sobered up a bit. "Ridiculous. Nah, need meself a wife with brains, Tommy, don't give a shit if I'm under 'er boot as long as she does the thinkin' for me. Need meself a wife like you. Reckon I can't refuse for long though. Fuckin' Chinese mafia."

"How long you been holdin' out?"

Teddy avoided Tommy's judgmental eyes by turning on his back and crossing his arms behind his head. "'Bout two seasons."

"You fuckin' twit." Thomas propped up, ran an annoyed hand over his mouth and took another drag of his cigarette. "Should've told me."

"Well 'm tellin' ya now," Teddy muttered idly, sleep tugging at his voice. "Even if, not even you and yer pikey wit can c'm up with a solution 'ere. If I take a lesser offer it'll hurt the Triads pride or honor or whatever, and then you can forget Silk roads out of London or Hong Kong and all that."

"Shame, their Cocaine is the best," Tommy remarks off handily, deciding to concentrate on the business part of the conversation.

"Yeah, let's not even talk 'bout the Opium." An irritated sigh escaped Thaddeus. "All these years and hard work up in soddin' smoke. Christ. I'm fucked, Tommy. Gunna marry that damn Triad girl, am I?"

It had been a long time coming, Tommy knows. For men like them, having no woman by their side was not only a distinct disadvantage, but also arose strange suspicions. Especially for the two of them, whose origin of profoundly rooted personal and business relation remained a dirty mystery. And while marrying into the Yuesheng family would be a smart move, he cannot persuade himself to encourage Teddy at the sight of his obvious doubts and reluctance. He can not persuade himself to give him away.

He slides over Teddy, smoothes their bodies together under the sheet, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers as he hovers above. Teddy blinks, vulnerable and open underneath, and all resistance crumbles as Tommy lowers down to bring a kiss to his lips, languid reassurance pouring from his lips. When he pulls back just enough to look deep into Thaddeus' eyes, Tommy brings in a profound breath and opens his mouth to say:

"Ada's a clever girl."

A certain stillness takes over Thaddeus', as if he had forgotten how to breathe. As if Thomas Shelby himself had just asked him for his hand. There is a hesitation in Thomas' face, a fear of rejection maybe, presumedly if Teddy could ever refuse him anything.

"She know 'bout us."

The scoff Tommy gives is almost relieved. "What don't she know 'bout us."

He was pretty sure Polly knew, and Arthur and Johnny and Micheal and probably even daft Finn, probably the whole damn family by now. For all the hiding away, some touches and stares slipped even under Tommy and Teddy's watch. But they did not say things like that out loud. A smile breaks on Teddy's lips, louder than any of those worries.

"I'll be a proper fuckin' Shelby."

Tommy looks at Thaddeus' pointedly, his thumb resting on his flat cheek. "I want an heir."

All that elicits from Teddy is an eye roll. "You'll get your fuckin' son. Now c'mere and give me a damn kiss, you gypsy."

Thomas leans in and happily obliges, drinking the sun from Teddy's lips until it rose orange over his cursed palace. Half way between hasty decisions and sloppy consolidation of allegiances, they lay down where their old love is.

* * *

 

Teddy watches over the bay, spiced cigarette strong in his nose and lung. From up here in his office on the last floor in his building looming over the Royal Albert dock, his men resemble ants with heavy loads on their backs. They scramble and shout and carry, diligent work of a well-oiled machine Teddy should feel the God of.

He doesn't. He will never get used to this. He is not Thomas with that diligent air of seriousness, that eloquent mouth and razor sharp cheekbones, words always hitting the right spot. He neither elegant nor sophisticated. No, Teddy can not begin comparing to Tommy, even in the face of his accomplishments, because he knows deep down he is only here out of Thomas' silent command. This was their world, but his place had gotten mixed up somewhere along the way.

His second in command, a wiry man named Zedong Thaddeus has known since childhood, comes barging in and holds a telegram under his nose, leaves in silence as soon as Teddy traps it between his forefinger and thumb.

_Pick up_ , is all it reads, just as the phone behind him starts ringing.

A tired sigh escapes his lips, drawn from an equally exasperated soul, and Teddy stubs out his joint in an overflowing ashtray of gleaming brass. He curses Thomas right up to the moment he catches an earful of his grave voice through the speaker.

Suddenly angels smile their blessings upon the blue eyed devil.

* * *

 

Thaddeus had insisted they take the train and go somewhere else but London.

"Feels too much like work," he had justified.

When John, Arthur and Teddy grow giddier the farther away they get from Birmingham, Tommy thinks to understand. As the train skids to a halt in Liverpool and their shared bottle rolls around empty on the floor, they have regressed into old habit, causing a ruckus around the carriage, playfully shoving and mimicking each other. Even Tommy falls to the charm to ditching responsibilities once they shoot up, stride to the exit. Teddy somehow zips past him, shouldering his way in the narrow passage.

"Colossal mistake, boy!" Tommy calls after him, barely having the time to register Thaddeus snort a giggle before his brothers come up behind to try and fight their way as prized second out of the door.

Refusing to be overwhelmed Thomas pushes back, until they stumble out of the train like a bunch of adolescent rascals, a few heads surely turning. A click resounds in Tommy's ear as they fall in a jumbled mess, barely catch their feet under vulgar jives and exclamations, and when he turns and catches the Kodak Pocket Camera he has gifted Teddy for the occasion his heart jumps. At first he is sceptic, asks what Teddy is doing. The picture must be blurry and unreadable for all the motion.

Teddy's laugh rings free and reckless as he answers, "Making you worth remembering."

Making the man who wanted nothing but be remembered worth remembering, brilliant. For a second the emperor's crown Thomas' has been chasing for ages is nothing but a stack of golden hay next to carved jade. A creature boasting scales in the sun, amplifying the slightest draft of liberty with the power of an undulating body.

Still in his momentum Tommy draws close, almost too close, mind blank as he drew an arm around Teddy's waist, pulling him closer as they walked down the platform. He has no control over this, tells himself it is because no one recognized them here, they could if only for a second let their guard down an inch. Another laugh intoxicates him, Thaddeus' arm falling onto his shoulders, his other hand cradling the camera close to his heart. He pulls out the metal stylus from its brackets on the camera and pops open the T-shaped window on the rear panel, scribbling something directly on the margin of the negative.

"Now what's so urgent that you got to jot it down 'ight away."

"You'll see."

Behind them, John elbows Arthur, nodding to the easy intertwining of Tommy and Thaddeus.

"Drop it," Arthur grumbles warningly.

John shrugs off his puzzlement, at least for the moment, observes the back of Tommy's head as he pulls of his cap and runs a hand through his hair. Somehow, he has kind of always known. The great Shelby family secret, the dirtiest of them all, that had started to seep through the cracks. How could it not with that sparkling boy constantly at Tommy's side the past few years.

Uneasiness spreads in the deep confinements of John's stomach at the thought of the uncomfortable truth in the eyes of others. He does what he always does and pushes it further down.

* * *

 

 

Tommy was right, the photograph is kind of blurry. It finds a spot on his grand desk anyways, a circle of a picture framed in sober Sandalwood. There's an inscription etched into the bottom edge, in Teddy's handwriting.

_Never forget._

That day in Liverpool. Who you really are and where you came from. To live, breathe even when the world closes up around you. There's a certain freedom awakening in Tommy's chest everytime he grazes his fingers over his brothers far too contrasted faces, split in a smudged smile. He knows there is a second print sitting on the drawer next to Thaddeus' bed, back in London. He has seen it, smiled around the burning edge of his cigarette and raised a gleeful eyebrow at his lover. It is a kind of solace though, to know the first thing

Teddy sees when he opens and closes his eyes is that bloody blurry photograph. He may not be in it, but his spirit is.

In Birmingham, when Thomas brings the frame to his nose, he can smell the spices, where it had all begun.

* * *

 

Searing marbles of black clashing coral blue. This was not anger, no, Polly was absolutely livid, her whole proud statue screaming spite and defiance.

"Out of the fucking question," she spits, a quiver of rage in her voice.

Thomas thinks to sense it for a second, then he takes a drag of his cigarette and dissipates the foreboding fight with a resolute, "Ada said yes. It's already decided."

Polly steps up. "If we have no voice, don't call it a family meeting then. How can you let her marry that- that-"

Sodomite. That was the word she wanted to say out loud, the forbidden filthy word none of them ever dared to speak out loud, he could read it in her trembling eyes, sense it dripping venom on the tip of her tongue. Thomas feels funny all of the sudden, sickness invoking a crawling impatience, and then the vague of anger hits, unexpected and way too foamy to put up the barriers in time.

They thought it was wrong, they thought it was wrong he found solace once in a blue moon.

"Goddamnit Pol," he bellows, falling into the habit of demanding respect in front of a faltering audience. "This is not up for discussion, you 'ear me!"

A wad of wetness hits his face and hurried steps echo in the shocked silence of the room, and when Tommy wipes away the spit with all his contained rage to open his eyes, Polly is gone. There is only cold air where his aunt had once been, ringing of a slamming door deafening in the stiff air. Thomas rubs the slippery spit between his fingers, seething like a mountain about to growl and spit fire. His first instinct would have been to chase after and put a bullet into the bastard's head right then and there, but this was Polly. Aunt Pol. Public execution was not an option here.

Goddamnit Pol.

"Out," he orders instead. The rest of the Shelby family jars into motion.

The last to step through the door is Micheal, and his wary eyes fall onto the white knuckled grip Thomas has on the back of a chair.

"Wanted to be like you, you know," he says, steady. "Wanted."

The past tense floats in Thomas' mind as his belongings shatter to a thousand pieces, a detached scream ripping though his throat. A fractured memory of himself comes up, in those damp tunnels, a last candle flickering out under his own cold breath. He had wanted to be like him too, before he became.

He wakes up to a cool rag on his forehead, blurry Ada through the slits of his lids. Soft shushing, warmth enveloping his hand. There is the shadow of a man on the lookout, perched over her shoulder, all dim sunshine and thin vapor. Thomas reaches out to cling to that familiar figure with his withering hand and soul, a sting sitting deep in his lungs like a pipe too much, followed by a shiver of fever ripping though his body.

"What can I give him," the feeble croak rises out of him, "poor as I am?"

When Ada gives the deserted air behind her a perplexed glance and mutters, "What are you on about Tommy?", he has already fallen back into oblivion.

* * *

 

The phone rings. Teddy wants to hurl the damn thing across the room, instead he signs some papers and ignores it.

* * *

  
"Yes? Ada- What you mean Tommy's askin' for me, he should be in Small Hearth. Oh Christ. Oh bloody hell. Yeah, I just gotta wrap somethin' up here. Give him plenty of water, yeah? I know he's not a damn horse! Just fuckin' do as told for once, Ada, trust me, alright? Calm down, shut your mouth and breathe. Listen, the faster I can get off the bloody phone the faster I can be there. Yeah. Later."

* * *

 

Teddy honours his promise, barges into Ada's home and sinks to Thomas' bedside with not a second wasted. He collects the cloth from her trembling fingers, holds her close with one arm even as the second hand reaches to feel Thomas' temperature. It is all done with such unflappable concentration Ada guesses this is not the first time.

"What's happening to him?" she asks fearfully, falling against Teddy's strong chest.

Teddy breathes once, his eyes never leaving Tommy. "He gets like that sometimes," he speaks solemnly, "When the tunnels come back, goes on a bender, downs all his pills and scotch, smokes all his opium."

"Opium. I didn't know that... Opium?"

"Ever since the war."

"He's going to kill himself."

Teddy only scoffs. "Haven't you heard? Tommy Shelby is immortal."

It is supposed to be a joke, one Peaky Blinders sometimes shared behind their leaders back. Some of them believed it, but the dryness in Teddy's voice gave away he didn't. All he knew was that if Tommy ever kicked the bucket, it would inevitably not be by his own hand. No god would ever allow that. All he can do now is sit by his bedside, hold Ada and hope the daze would pass as fast as possible. He should have picked up that damn phone, for once that it really mattered. Tommy is here because of him.

"The bloody dimwit drove all the way up here," Teddy mutters.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Saw his car downstairs."

Tommy lays as still as a statue, alabaster skin blazing. Meanwhile Ada shivered in his arm, like the little girl she once was. Teddy can not help but press her closer, tuck her underneath his chin.

"He's gun' be alright, luv. Just needs his rest. He can't miss our wedding now, can he?"

At that a small laugh erupted out of Ada, between nervousness and sniffles. "Wedding's in four months," she whispers.

"Well he better be awake 'til then, or not bother at all."

Ada emits another frail laugh, holds onto him. Teddy breaks into a pressed smile, Tommy's hand twitches in his as if in silent agreement.

Though to what would remain a mystery.


End file.
